If you wait
by achildofthestars
Summary: WilsonCam. Written on the theory that people who suffer through like circumstances, almost always seek each other's pain out. Also, Amber/Wilson, Cam&House. Spoilers for House's Head and Wilson's Heart.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well...hello, again. It certainly has been awhile since I've even been on , but here we go.**

* * *

It started out innocent enough. Then again, so did they all.

She sat down to eat with you, never saying more than a few words or even looking at you with what you'd grown accustomed to from everyone else. You remember it quite vividly, the first time Cameron sat down at the empty table with her hair in that untidy bun and blonde strands falling into her face that she haphazardly swapped behind her ears.

Irritation, is what you first felt. It'd been five weeks since you ate in this cafeteria, walked these monotonous halls intended to be warm and inviting and instead, making you feel like your coffin was already surrounding you. The looks of pity were enough for you to lock yourself into your office for that first day, tired of the 'I'm sorry's,' the 'How are you's,' the 'I'm here for you's,' the 'Everything happens for a reason's,' the 'You're strong's,' and the _looks_.

The looks are what made you toss the objects on your desk onto the empty floor, the clattering of various knick knacks dull on the dark carpet reducing what should have satisfying and dynamic into something utterly anti-climactic. That's when you fell to the floor, slumping on the side of your desk, head in your hands, as you dry heaved into what was once, the only space you cared about. A minute passed, at least, that's what you thought at the time but now that memories have blurred, it doesn't seem right.

Realizing the mess, you sighed before leaning forward for the nearest dolls and books. By the time you were done rearranging your office into the version it had been before, it was lunch, and House had never once come by. As you locked your door, you were relieved you hadn't seen him since she passed over a month ago. You hadn't let yourself wonder at the ramifications because it was all too soon. Everything was too soon.

* * *

You nodded your head, tried to quirk your lips up on one side for some semblance of composure, accepted the pats on the shoulder, and handed out some 'Thank you's.' You never meant an action or a word you said and did. You wondered how anyone bought it coming from your lips, and then you remembered, you have superpowers. Too bad you couldn't care less about world domination now.

The table where you usually sat held no bodies, but you couldn't find it in yourself to place your warmth where she'd sat opposite you on more than one occasion. Your feet hesitated as if confused at why the destination had suddenly changed, but you marched on to sit at a table beside the window and near the corner. It was quieter here, less charged, less memory filled. And that's when she came.

"Do you mind if I eat with you?"

It would've have been rude to say no, and even while you thought your tongue was going to give way to your id, some propriety still hung with you for some reason.

"I'm fine," you managed to say without sounding curt like you thought you would. And when you didn't see the pink scrubs she wore move from the corner of your eyes, you looked up again to see something you hadn't seen so far today. Allison Cameron was irritated, not like you were, but it was there, barely brazen enough to shine through her hazel eyes.

Even as it disappeared, her body shifting to move away, you dropped your fork with a strong hand as if in defeat. It wasn't far from the truth.

"If you sit, I don't want to talk about...it."

And so she sat, her fingers brushing back her wayward hair behind her gentle ears and you couldn't help but see another woman run her fingers through equally blonde hair in exasperation. You picked up your fork then, harshly jabbing into your salad to throw the memory to the back of your mind where many other thoughts were gaining dust from years of forced forgetfulness.

"I was supposed to eat with Chase until he dumped me for a mitral valve replacement."

Even though you knew it was forced small talk, you didn't mind for the first time that day and that made you look at her as she took a bite of her sandwich. Cameron was beautiful. As soon as the thought whirred across your mind, you blinked because it held no weight. It was the truth, and there was no beauty or greatness about that.

"Who could pass up a valve?"

The words slipped by so fast that even you didn't think you'd uttered them. When she shook her head, her eyes meeting his with something he couldn't call pity and couldn't call sympathy, you shrugged your shoulders under the blue and white striped, wrinkled button up shirt.

You would sit there with her for another fifteen minutes, the two of you down to sipping your water and coffee while the rest of the hospital cafeteria bustled with noise that made you grind your teeth together. You had the distinct feeling it would always be like this: cold and too loud, too disjointed and unreal.

That's when the blonde ER attending stood, tossing her trash into the can located just a table away and you watched her long and limber arm muscles draw tight, her torso twisting slightly to the right as one leg bore the majority of her light weight while the other lifted slightly.

Somewhere in the moment, you thought she may have missed her calling as a figure skater or a ballerina. Why it would even come into your conscious thought, you didn't know, but you didn't know a lot then either.

"Thanks, Wilson. I'll see you later."

She didn't wait for your reply which you were grateful for. It was as if it was any other day. You tossed your cup into the trash barrel before making your way through the crowd of doctors and nurses meandering in to find sustenance after a long morning. This time when they looked at you and offered their meaningless apologies, you realized Cameron had done something for you.

She wasn't sorry for you. For your situation, yes. But for you? No, you were pretty sure she wasn't. That was the only reason you made it through the whole day.

* * *

**A/N: Well? My first non-H/C fic, so how was it on a pain level of 1-10? For those of you waiting on INS, don't worry, I'll be updating eventually! The 2 parter finale saved the entire season for me. I actually went ahead and watched the 2 or 3 eps before that since I hadn't bothered before. The finale was just fantastic in my opinion. Many thanks.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Not sure how I feel about this one, but it's better than the first draft so...**

**Disclaimer: Don't Own House MD**

It wasn't difficult. All it was, was lonely.

There was a moment that morning three days later as you unlocked your office door that made the slight hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It could have been House, randomly on time for the third time this year, but you didn't care and so you never turned around. You didn't know where you stood with him, or even if you wanted to.

-

You watched Cameron as she wrote furiously in a file upon the nurse's station in the clinic lobby. Her hair was a bundled mess of wayward strands unwilling to be tamed in a hurried bun that had become her only style since working in the ER. The white lab coat surrounding her body slightly shifted as she moved her left foot behind her right one and leaned farther on the station.

Standing back, hands in your lab pockets, you took in the whole view of the clinic. It was rather…unfulfilling in your mind. Another room, more of the same people, more simple diagnoses, and all the same expressions. Briefly, you wondered if you were ready for this, to be back full force, and then you wondered if it mattered at all.

"Cameron?"

Your feet must have gained the ability to be silent and stealthy because when she lifted her head abruptly her right hand released the pen she'd controlled so carefully. Reaching for it at the same time, both bending down to the white floor, you smelled the zesty aroma of oranges and lemons and suddenly found yourself hungry because you hadn't eaten since yesterday morning.

It felt like a lifetime since you'd touched a woman's fingers like that, like it meant something. It didn't mean anything, but as you both stood, her pen once again in her clutches, you realized it was just the thought that it might mean something which was making you almost sick to your stomach. You didn't look at Cameron, mostly because unlike the other day at lunch, you could see the hint of sympathy behind her eyes. It didn't settle your stomach.

"You called for a consult?"

The professional tone was intentional and needed as you tapped your fingers on the station to distract yourself. She noticed.

"Bryan Reynolds. Thirty-three. Ex-smoker. He came in Monday complaining of headaches, nausea, heavy breathing, chest pain, coughing up blood with his mucous. Scans on his chest confirm he has lung cancer."

Looking through the file, you thought that Bryan Reynolds was an idiot for smoking a pack a day for eight years. Some people were lucky, smoking more than a train and never getting cancer. You turned back to the front page, greeted by the knowledge he had two kids and one wife. He'd quit for his kids seven years ago. Some people weren't lucky, destined to die for a mistake.

"There's not much we can do, Cameron."

Cameron surprised you by looking away toward exam room three and nodding her head just so softly. It was then, through the vague veil of self-pity and loss that you remembered her husband would have been around this age had he lived those long years ago. Before you could say anything, she turned her head back to you, face revealing nothing but an unassuming calmness.

"He's waiting. You ready?"

Funny, you thought maybe you should've asked her that.

-

You didn't know if she was still working. The ER schedule was tentative at best, and you had never before bothered to try to predict it. No one stopped you. No one asked you questions. No one seemed to care as you walked down the short hallway with one hand trailing against the white wall and the other holding your solid briefcase. It was nice.

She was sitting behind the main desk, hair for once not in her careless bun, but draping across her shoulders in abandon. House had always liked her hair. You had never really thought about it until now.

For the second time that day, you caused her to jump at your appearance and whether or not that was good, never registered. Apparently, you were the last person she thought she'd see down here and it calmed you to a degree you'd been fighting to find the past days.

Cameron dropped her pen. "Wilson, what's wrong?"

The genuine concern in her eyes made you glance away to your feet and you shifted your briefcase from your right to left hand. When you faced her again, you were sure you were going to break down and crumble into the pieces of a man who'd lost the closest person to him. But this was Cameron, and you couldn't allow her in on something you still held to yourself so tightly.

"Nothing, nothing's wrong. I just…" you sighed, shook your head and could only imagine what she was thinking. "You seemed different today. Goodnight, Cameron."

You'd already made it past the ER entrance doors, bathed in the almost dusk of quiet sun and patient darkness, when you felt the pressure on your left arm. It was so out of place, unneeded, unwanted, and yet you stopped in place. The stillness of the almost humid air weighed you down and you were grateful the smell of lemons and oranges had been replaced by antiseptic and latex.

She came to stand in front of you, both hands on her slight hips as she eyed you. You wished you could be looking at this from the outside because it would've appeared incongruous and laughable. Cameron was ready for battle, and you were nearly slumped over with mild dejection in every fiber of your being. Who was Goliath and who was David?

"You should talk about it, Wilson. It's been enough time."

"It's barely over a month."

"And eventually it'll be barely six months, barely a year, barely two, barely over a decade." She finished quietly, eyes burning into yours and you understood what she meant.

"I'm not…you're not…I can't right now."

You hadn't planned on being honest with Cameron. In fact, you had planned on lying to her and everyone else until you quietly went to your grave. She must have known because she folded her arms and let her left shoe rub against the pavement. When she looked at you, you didn't feel guilty that what you saw was what you glimpsed in the mirror this morning.

"You should have _someone_, Wilson. You need House."

It was the last thing you wanted to hear but she continued.

"I'm not being presumptuous. I'm not being naïve. I just know."

You couldn't fault that logic, but she was not you and you were not her. "Cameron…there's just too much."

There was a silence, a note touched continuously that was neither grating nor appealing. She folded, for now.

"Come on. Did you forget your parking space was on the other side of the hospital? I'll walk with you."


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

You walk by his office like every morning these past two weeks, but this time, something is different. She's with him. Your feet slow, your steps suddenly not so hurried as you look into those glass walls. They're both staring at MRI scans of someone's spine as if the meaning of life is hidden somewhere between dense tissue and air. You should tell them it's ludicrous.

When she smirks at something he says, you wonder at how easy it is for her, for him too. Maybe especially him. It shouldn't be.

Her hand brushes his arm as she moves to place it on her right hip, waiting for him to look at her and play the game that existed between them. That's all it ever really came down to.

You turned your attention away and picked up your pace so you could shut yourself up in your office and keep your pain in check. You're tired of playing games.

* * *

"I had the flu."

She blinked and you almost laughed into the surprisingly chill night air. The street lamp continued to buzz incessantly while the small bugs bumped and collided in monotonous abandon, if that was possible, and you were sure it was.

"Two days after," you paused as you rolled your shoulders forward as the word fought its way to the front of your tongue. "It was the last thing I had of hers." Besides her letter, but you won't divulge that secret yet, maybe never.

Silence. Almost silence. Cameron rocked back on her feet as her hands slid into the pockets of her dark jacket over her too pink scrubs of the dreary hospital. You hadn't told anyone before. You hadn't wanted to. Now, the damage was done and you weren't as relieved as you thought you'd be. Maybe you should have kept your mouth shut.

"My husband," her mouth closed briefly and when she began again, her voice was on the verge of being hoarse. "When he died, the hospital gave me his personals."

One foot of hers tapped softly while the other rested deathly still. You couldn't look away from them.

"It was in a drawstring pouch, along with a post-it note. 'Sorry, I'll miss your birthday, Allison. It's from Guatemala. I love you.'"

You counted the three long stretches of seconds where you didn't know what to say and you didn't know what to do. When had you two come to this – sharing war stories? You decided to be safe, to ask the obvious.

"What was it?"

"A necklace."

She turns, the light suddenly shadowing half of her face while the other half is as pale as that of what he imagines would be a ghost. Then again, perhaps she is and always was. You'd never known what to look for until now.

"I don't wear it as much as I used to."

This time, her face is completely dark, shielding whatever expression you thought you might find on her nostalgic features. And that's when she takes one step back, the light now falling down on her as if she has nothing to hide. You wonder what that must feel like.

"I can understand it, Wilson."

"Some of it," you find yourself replying without thinking. "You _knew_, Cameron. You got to make your peace with it, both of you. We didn't know it was coming at all. And we…I didn't make peace."

Her pager beeps into the night air and you watch her hands automatically reach for the object and bring it closer to her face. She gives you that look, the type that means she knows she should stay here but can't. You're grateful for the page.

"I've gotta go…."

You wonder why she's waiting for a response. "Okay."

"Don't forget about House, Wilson."

You wonder why she'd even think you'd respond.

Her feet don't make a movement for a few seconds more as she fights for something to say before realizing she's lost. You watch her slight nod, her hands moving into the pockets of her scrubs, and her back as she finally begins to leave you here. Then she stops, turning abruptly one last time just at the edge where the street light dims into the darkness of the real world.

"There's always this idea that you believe, that tomorrow you'll find this peace you've heard about. I haven't found it. I've just found acceptance, and those are two very different things."

She's gone, nothing but space to mark her presence. You kind of like that, and you don't know why.


End file.
